


the beast won't go to sleep

by an_ardent_rain



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Porn With Plot, Post-Season/Series 02, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-11
Packaged: 2018-08-21 20:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8260052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/an_ardent_rain/pseuds/an_ardent_rain
Summary: Frank catches her hand inches from his face.“Don’t,” he says, voice low and smoldering, something she doesn’t recognize burning in his face, behind the large, dark pupils of his eyes.  She loses all momentum suddenly, looking all around the room before finally she meets his eyes.  It takes her breath away.





	

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT EVEN IS THIS. I have such conflicted feelings about this, not least that it ended up being about twice as long as I planned. BECAUSE OF ALL THE DAMN SEX. Ugh. I mean... Not really ugh but at the same time I had way more trouble than usual with the right balance there. Also! While I'm happy with the ending (mostly?), it was supposed to be more! I had a whole lot more planned, but I forgot it, I completely have no idea where I was going, so I just wanted to do a quick story, kind of short but impactful, and then this happened instead, so. There you go. 
> 
> Also my summary is unrepentant click-bait. I mean, yes, those are actual lines from the story that I wrote, but it doesn't exactly tell you what it's about. Ha.
> 
> Also also this is pretty much ignoring the new BTS photos released - or else it takes place awhile after them. In this, as in all my stories, context appears to be entirely absent.

Karen’s week had been good so far and she’d planned to top it off with a relaxing, solitary weekend in her new apartment. She had not planned on any trouble, or on getting tangled up in some bullshit when someone decided to use one of her regular sources as bait to try to stab her. Being stabbed was not how she’d planned to spend her Friday night.

She pushes Mack, her source, into the other man, and takes off full tilt in as fast a dash as she can manage. She jams her hand down into her bag, grasping desperately for her phone. She unlocks it and opens her messaging and sends a text.

_> >in knife ft pls help ally near bulltin_

She has her gun, but she hopes with a wild, pulsing hope that she doesn’t have to use it. The thought of using it, of shooting someone even just in defense, feels like poison in her body and nausea wrenches her stomach into a string of fat knots. She has mace, though, and she wraps her hand around it in a tight-knuckled fist, keeping her bag pressed against her body as she runs.

There’s a crack in the street she doesn’t see until her heel’s already caught in it. She trips and stumbles, avoids a fall at the cost of her ankle.

“Shit,” she swears, hopping on one foot as she pulls her shoe back onto her heel. There are footsteps behind her and before she can pick up her pace a pair of arms grabs her waist and tackles her to the ground. She can’t lift her arm to use the mace, she can’t move at all as he pins her face first to the ground. 

The can is pulled out of her fist as he rips her bag away from her and then turns her over, his knees pinning her arms to the ground.

“Stupid bitch,” he says. He spits at her and it lands in a warm, moist trail on her cheek. She flinches, turns her face, and he slaps her hard. It stings and she chokes back a noise of pain. “I’m here to teach you a lesson,” he says. He slaps her again. She struggles to break out of his hold, but as soon as she gets an arm free he grabs it and slams it back on the ground, pinning her hand with his knee. He’s tall and lean, strong, his arms and legs thick and hard with ropes of muscle. She can’t overpower him, not unless she can get a weapon or take him by surprise. He pulls out a knife and before she realizes what’s happening he runs it down her cheek. She feels the blood almost before she feels the pain - it’s sharp, unexpected, and she gasps before she can stop herself. She twists her hips, trying to buck him off, but he’s too heavy, too focused on keeping her subdued. Her skirt’s too tight to move her legs much so she spreads her thighs as far apart as she can, hiking her skirt up. It’s enough to let her lift her leg, and she knees him as hard as she can in the back. 

He only laughs.

“You’re nosy,” he says, and one hand goes around her throat. “Poking into things that should be left alone. I think I’m going to enjoy hurting you.” 

Karen fights for breath as his grip tightens. It is so unfair, she thinks, that she is going to be taken down by someone so cliche. She’d been looking into a small embezzlement scandal - completely unrelated to any of the other, bigger shit going on in the city as far as she could tell. Nothing to do with Kingpin, or what Matt called the Hand, and nothing to do with any vigilante. She’d been grabbed by some small-time enforcer hired by a dirty politician. 

Is this how I die, she wonders. He’s holding her there, right on the edge of consciousness, a dark look of pleasure in his eye as she pants and struggles against his hold. He eases his hold on her throat and dips the knife down, taps the flat of the blade against her chin.

He leans in closer, puts more weight on the knee that’s on her hand. “Are you afraid?” he asks. The point of the knife presses into the soft, meaty skin of her throat. Her whole body tightens, going almost corpse stiff and she hardly dares to breath. Her mind wheels between fear and anger and she can’t see a way out. He’s saying something else, something quiet and cruel, but she doesn’t register the words. Her mind whites out, adrenaline lapping like the hungry curl of a wave against her senses. All she can hear is a low buzz in the back of her head, and the pounding of her heart as she tries to think up any way to get away from him. His grip tightens on her throat and his fingers flex around the handle of the knife, adjusting his grip with anticipation.

Karen’s body is rigid with terror but she is not going to let this be an easy victory for him. She is ready to fight.

Before he can do anything, however, an arm wraps around his neck and yanks him backwards and up. He lets go of her throat and his legs flail, giving her enough room to scoot away from him. She touches the base of her neck with careful fingers and looks up. Frank Castle has the man in a headlock. 

They struggle for a moment. One hand is scratching and pulling at the arm around his neck, and the other - the one holding the knife - is reaching behind him. He stabs backwards blindly and he must hit something because Frank grunts and the man pulls away. He rams into Frank’s chest with his shoulder but doesn’t knock him over.

Frank pushes him back but the man growls and rushes him again, gripping the handle of the knife in his fist and jabbing wildly. There’s no finesse and he swings the blade around, cutting upward towards Frank with no real application of skill. Frank grabs his hand before he pulls his arm back and twists it away from his body, bending it back. Karen hears it crack and the man shouts and the knife falls from his grip.

With a grunt Frank kicks it away. Karen scrambles to her feet and grabs the knife, holding it in front of her, blade pointed towards her assailant. 

“Fuck,” the man says, glancing between them. He ducks a punch and moves toward Karen. And she knows what he’s going to do - he’s going to hurt her, he’s going to try to use her as a shield between him and Frank. As soon as she extends her arm to attack him he’s ready, grabbing her and spinning her into a hold. His other hand brushes over her breast and it’s so brief she’s sure it’s accidental but it still makes her feel sick. She jams her heel into his instep and elbows him in the gut before he can take the knife away. He grabs her forearm as she pulls away from him. His hand is hot and damp and his grip is so tight she feels it bruising, all the way down to the bone. His other hand goes around her throat and squeezes. There is no drawing it out now. Everything is happening so quickly she’s not sure where Frank is, if he has a shot around her, and she hurts as her body tries to draw in air.

There’s no time to think about it. She’s only an arms-length away from him and her limbs are longer. She puts all the power she can into one swing and she pivots her arm in a hard arc and then punches toward him, driving the knife at his throat.

The blade pierces through the skin of his neck and there’s a sickening spray of blood. His grip loosens and she moves away, stumbling backwards in her heels. Karen claps both hands over her mouth to stifle any noise and takes a few more steps back until she’s against the wall. The attacker gurgles and coughs and blood spurts in deep red threads from his wound and from his mouth. He staggers, tries to grab the knife. His hand barely touches the handle and Frank shoots him in the head. 

The gunshot seems loud, and it echoes in the stillness after the man’s corpse crumples in a heap onto the wet, dirty ground.

He’s dead, she thinks, he’s dead, and her fingerprints are on his knife. She killed him. Frank might have pulled the trigger, but she feels the guilt of his death like tar all over her body. 

“I stabbed him,” she says. She looks down and his blood is a dark puddle under his body. His blood is all over her, She touches her blouse with trembling hands and pulls away fingers wet with his blood. “Oh shit,” she breathes. “Fuck. I stabbed him. I stabbed him.” She hyperventilates, knocks her head back against the wall in a panic.

“Calm down,” Frank says. His voice is sharp-edged, like razor wire, and her nerves jangle as he moves closer.

“I stabbed him,” she says again, and then she breathes and it turns into a laugh, and then another, and she feels tears streaming down her face as, hysterical, she looks down at the blood on her clothes and laughs.

XXX

She’s not sure where Frank takes her.

Though her laughter dies down after a little while, she’s helpless as he surveys the little alley - the crime scene she thinks - standing against the wall with her arms around her body. He takes the knife out of the man’s throat. Karen’s mind blanks a little after that. 

“Don’t worry,” he says. His voice is gruff but comforting. “No one’s going to know you had anything to do with this. You don’t need to feel bad, either, you were only defending yourself.” He looks at her hard and knocks his head over his shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “You’re coming with me.”

That is an easy instruction to follow and Karen obeys without thinking too much about it. She’s shaken up and still covered in blood and when they finally make it to wherever Frank has holed up she’s pretty sure she’s in shock.

“Sit,” he tells her, pointing towards the opposite wall of the tiny apartment as he shuts and bolts the door behind them. There’s a low, unmade bed and a single folding chair. 

“I’ll get blood on - “

“Just sit,” he says. “On the bed is fine, I can take off the sheets.”

She nods and walks over and sits down. The sheets are a soft gray, old and worn in. But they’re clean, and they have a faint, pleasant sort of smell, like soap and light sweat. She shakes off her shoes - one of which is probably ruined - and hugs herself.

“You need anything?” Frank asks, laying out his guns on a cheap folding table. She shakes her head. He looks up at her and pauses. He licks his lips and blinks, then walks over to stand in front of her. He kneels, like he would with a child. “Hey,” he says. “Look at me.” She meets his eyes and they’re startlingly dark, intense. Her breathing picks up and she clenches her hands into her skirt to calm herself. “Hey,” he says again, a little louder but gentler. One hand hovers near her elbow, not sure if touching her would be okay. “You didn’t kill that guy, I did. Even if you had, it wouldn’t matter, he was going to hurt you, but I was the one who put him down.”

“I stabbed him,” she says, her voice cracking as a fresh spill of tears threatens. 

“Yeah, and I shot him.”

“But if I hadn’t - “

“Was he dead before the bullet hit him?”

Her eyes squeeze up as tears roll down her face and she clenches her teeth.

“Karen,” he says, soft, and the tips of his fingers brush her arm. “Answer the question.”

“No,” she whispers, breathless. “He wasn’t dead before the bullet hit him.”

“That’s right. So that means whoever fired? That’s who killed the son of a bitch.” His hands touch her forearms lightly and he slides them down in gentle strokes. It’s soothing and Karen appreciates how good he is at this.

“You don’t need to.” She swallows. “You don’t need to coddle me. I’ll be okay.”

“I know you’ll be okay eventually, but I don’t want you getting hysterical again.” He lets go of her and she misses the warmth of his hands.

“I won’t. That wasn’t, um. That wasn’t the first time. That i’ve killed someone.” She blinks, looking down at her lap instead of at Frank.

“Yeah, I figured.”

His voice is soft, without judgement, and Karen suddenly can’t take it.

“Well what are you going to do about it, Frank?” She pushes his shoulder and he rocks back. He stands as she does, moving backwards away from her. “You’re the Punisher! Don’t I deserve to be punished?”

“No ma’am,” he says. “You know you’re not like the people I kill.”

“How can you say that?” She’s almost screaming, she knows, and she’s getting hysterical again, but now that she’s started she can’t stop. “What gives you the right to make that decision? How exactly do you judge? I’m… I’m not a good person, either. That man tonight? I shoved a knife into his throat, Frank. He was going to die whether you were there or not.”

“You need to stop,” he barks. “Good person or not, you’re not a monster. Not like them, and not like me.”

“I am!” she shouts. She steps towards him, arms moving wildly as she speaks. “I am! Nobody knows who I am, what I am inside. I killed this man, and I shot a man in the chest with his own gun, and when I was… When I was young…” She loses steam, unable to say more and she lets out a strangled yell, twisting her body and shaking her head hard.

“Stop it,” Frank commands. He sounds sharp. Angry. He reaches for her, but she yanks away from him, her scream winding down to loud, messy sobs. “I said stop it! Calm the hell down right now.” He reaches for her again and this time she can’t tug her arm away. He pulls her in close to his body, wraps her in his arms. She fights the hold, beats her fist against his chest. Frank lets her hit him, but he doesn’t let her go.

Her tears subside after another moment of struggle, and she starts to feel anger filling her up. She puts all her strength into her next jab, and hits him square in the stomach. Frank grunts and she puts her palms flat against his chest and pushes hard. She doesn’t know if that breaks his hold or if he lets her go but she stumbles as she steps back, raising her fists for a fight.

“Calm down,” he warns. He raises his hand, open, fingers spread, and doesn’t let his gaze leave her face.

“I don’t need to calm down,” she says, stepping into his space and pushing his shoulder. “I’m calm!”

“You’re not calm, Karen,” he says, dodging a fist. “I don’t think you’re thinking about what you’re doing.” 

“I am.” She rushes him, beats her fists on his chest. He grunts and pushes her back. It’s hard enough to maker her lose her footing and she stumbles again. His eyes are darker now, close to angry, and it makes a dark, ugly feeling of accomplishment rise in her chest. She pushes back, leading with her shoulder right at his ribs, and he shoves her away again. She grits her teeth. Her fist tightens and she rears back, punches at his chest. He grabs her hand before it can make contact and she cries out. She punches again with her left, but he blocks that, too. She pulls out of his hold and he grabs her biceps, pinning her arms against her sides. “Let me go,” she says through clenched teeth. She’s crying again, she realizes, salt on her lips. 

“I’m not letting you go until I’m sure you’re not going to attack me again.” She jerks but can’t pull away and he gives her a look, admonishing, that makes her shrink back and bite her lip.

“Let me go, Frank,” she says with less venom.

He looks at her for a long moment, and then releases her, taking a step back. “Okay,” he says. He nods at her. “Are you going to go batshit on me again and try to attack or are we good?” Karen feels another surge and she steps out, her stance wide, and pulls back to slap him.

Frank catches her hand inches from his face.

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and smoldering, something she doesn’t recognize burning in his face, behind the large, dark pupils of his eyes. She loses all momentum suddenly, looking all around the room before finally she meets his eyes. 

It takes her breath away.

He lets her go and her hand lowers. She doesn’t feel wild like she did only moments before, at least not in the same way. She feels in the presence of something wild, feels chills up her spine from the look in Frank’s eyes. It’s flight now, she thinks, instead of fight and her body is still filled with adrenaline but -

It needs somewhere else to go.

Her mouth is on his before she realizes that’s what she plans to do. She barely has a chance to feel the shape of his mouth before he pulls away. His eyes are wide, so wide, looking at her in disbelief. He looks stunned. It makes her want him more and she moves to kiss him again. He holds an arm up between them, stops her. His brows are furrowed and he’s studying her, looking at her like she’s something he’s never seen. She’s so hot, burning, and it’s not fair is it, that he doesn’t feel the same fire. She wants to ignite him.

A long moment passes, soaked in anticipation. She shivers, despite how warm she feels. And Frank shifts closer, and he takes a breath. And then he starts to burn.

He grabs her and pulls her against him, and Karen presses as close as she can, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling his mouth to hers. He tilts his head, bites at her lip as his hand slides under her blouse, up her back. She feels lit up, a heat so intense it’s almost frightening. Even the taste of him is dangerous. His tongue slides against hers, aggressive and warm, and she pushes her hips into his.

Frank growls into her mouth, his hands moving to her waist. His body is hard against hers, and he kisses her, touches her, with a hurried, emphatic energy. She gasps as he pulls away from the kiss, his mouth moving to her neck. He bites hard enough to hurt but it’s so, so good. There’s still blood in her hair, she thinks, on her clothes, some still wet on her skin. And then there’s Frank all over her, all around her, and he smells like blood and gunpowder and sweat. She shouldn’t want him, she thinks wildly, pulling at his shirt, scratching at his back with hands curled into claws. Her heart beats hard as he rips her shirt open, tearing off buttons in his haste. She shouldn’t want him, she thinks, as she takes a breath and then kisses him, sucking his tongue inside her mouth as his hands sweep back to unhook her bra. But God, she does.

She wants him, wants him so badly she thinks it might tear her up inside. It’s going to burn her alive unless he can put out that fire and she starts to feel desperation pushing against the sharp heat of arousal. So she lifts his shirt up his chest. He pulls it up and over his head and throws it on the floor, barely separated from her mouth for more than a second before he dives back in, his lips on hers. He grabs her by her hips, then her thighs, and lifts her up then tosses her on her ass onto his bed. 

Her bra’s falling down her arms and she pulls it off, slinging it away from the bed. There’s blood drying on her chest, on her arms, in her hair, but if Frank doesn’t give a fuck about his bed neither does she. So she reaches for him, laying back, and the next moment he’s on top of her. He slides his hands up her legs, under her skirt and she arches her back, working her hand behind her to pull down the zipper. He tugs her skirt down and she wiggles out of it, pushing it to her ankles. He yanks it off and tosses it to the floor. He kisses her, hard, leaves her gasping when he pulls away. She grabs at his thighs, her nails scraping across the rough denim of his jeans. He sits up on his knees, looking down at her with intent, with dark, dangerous eyes that she feels like his fingers across her skin. He undoes his belt and unzips his fly and she wants to run her tongue along the dips and divots of his body, wants to trace the line down to the heat between his legs.

Together they pull his jeans and boxers down and he kicks them off. He’s naked and her mouth goes dry. 

Karen sits up and at the same time they reach for each other. He’s not careful with her, rough hands and demanding mouth, his body hot and hard and heavy, pushing against her. She lets him pull her flush against him, her breasts pressing against his chest. She wraps an arm around him, tangles long, desperate fingers in the short hair at the nape of his neck. She can’t get a grip, there’s not enough to grab, and she moans into the heat of his mouth. His hands move to her breasts, cupping them with calloused palms. It sends electricity through her and she lets out a breath, another moan. His teeth are on her neck, sharp and brutal and the best goddamn thing she’s felt. 

“Fuck,” she says, quiet, and he growls at the sound of her voice. He pushes her down and his mouth moves down her throat, kissing across the jut of her clavicle, nipping smooth skin until he gets to her chest and lets his tongue drag languid and thick across her nipple. She hisses and grabs him, digging her nails into his shoulder. He opens wider and sucks a mouthful of the firm, pale skin of her breast. Karen whimpers and arches her back. There is no space between them now, pressed together as close as they can be. One big hand trails down her stomach, then slips past the waistband of her panties. His hand moves between her legs and she spreads them wider, lets him settle between her thighs as his hand strokes her. She’s so wet, and he feels so fucking good against her, thick fingers at the warm heat between her legs, pushing into her body. 

She pulls him off her nipple by his hair, yanks him up towards her mouth, hikes a leg up over his hip. “Kiss me,” she says, biting at his lip. Her other hand makes an ineffectual grab for her underwear. “And help me get these off.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, his voice a deep, lusty snarl, his breath like a misted blanket over her when he speaks against her skin. He pulls his hand away from her, lets his knuckle brush her clit. Then he tears at the lacy briefs she’s wearing, ripping through them as he pulls them off her body. He walks his knees backward, and then slips off the bed. He runs his hands up her legs from the ankles to her hips, grabs her panties with both hands and tugs them to her knees. He licks his lips when he looks at her, meets her eyes as he lowers himself slowly down to bite with slow, punishing scrapes of his teeth against the fleshy inner muscle of her thigh. She’s not sure when her panties come off, the next thing she knows he has his tongue lapping at her, pushing inside her and she has to pull her lip between her teeth to stifle a scream. 

“Frank,” she says, wild, tossing her head, her legs lifting, his head bracketed between her thighs. He grabs her, keeps her legs spread open for him. “Oh God. Fuck,” she sobs, “Frank. Frank, I can’t…”

“That’s right,” he says against her. He runs the point of his tongue over her clit. “Want you to come. Want to feel you come right here, with my mouth on you.”

She cries out, one hand clutching at the sheets, the other grappling for purchase on the broad plane of his shoulder. He’s relentless and it feels so good she’s trembling, her body strung out so tight she feels like she’s going to break apart. There’s a dip in the pit of her stomach, a tingling in her legs. Her hips move, out of her control, and his nails dig into the meat of her thighs as he runs the flat of his tongue over her. He hums, sounding pleased, and that’s it, it’s too much - he sounds so fucking satisfied, like he’s getting something out of just seeing her lose control, getting pleasure just from the taste of her and her mind goes blank, her body flooded with an energy that feels infinite, unstoppable as her orgasm hits her. He takes her through it, slowing as the aftershocks hit her in gentle waves. He straightens and stares as she catches her breath. She looks up at his face, meets his eyes. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“You know how good you taste?” he asks. “Goddamn.” She flushes, and one eyebrow raises. He leans over her, letting his hands skim over her ribs, over the tips of her breasts. “Fucking beautiful, you know that? I could keep my mouth on you, eat that pussy all night.” He nips at her ear lobe, nuzzles her neck with the tip of his nose. “But, uh. I think I want to fuck you more.”

“Shit,” she hisses, arching her back. She aches, and her knees press together, trying to relieve the pressure between her legs. 

“You want that?” he asks. His hand covers her stomach and he murmurs soft against her mouth. “You want me inside you?”

“Yes, fuck Frank, come on.” She kisses him, hard and then pulls away to tell him “Condoms in my purse.”

He smiles wide and feral, a whole new animal. He turns and steps over to grab her bag from where it wound up on the floor. He digs for a few seconds before he finds the little foil packet and tears it open.

Everything about him is beautiful in that moment, she thinks, and it’s so easy to forget how deadly he is, how unforgiving. He takes the rubber and she watches him roll it down his cock. 

“Please,” she says, before she can help herself. She bites her lip and turns her head away, a flush rising in her cheeks.

“Hey.” He crawls up onto the bed, and kisses her slowly. “Say that again.”

“Shut up,” she whispers. He kisses her neck, then licks at the skin with slow strokes of his tongue. The desperation has faded now, and even though she still wants this - still wants him - she doesn’t feel as out of control. She’s not sure what she feels, lust and something like apprehension pooling in a hot swirl in her gut. “Say it again,” he repeats. “Tell me how much you want me.”

“Please,” she says again. “Please. I need…” Her nails dig into his back as she pulls him closer, trying to pull him into her body. “Fuck, I need you, I need you now.” She whines and arches up into him. One hand reaches down and strokes him and he makes a choked off, groaning sound. 

He kisses her again and grabs her by her hips. He lines up and pushes into her body in one slow, powerful thrust. They moan, asynchronous, her legs wrapping around him as he starts to drive in her body. It’s slow at first but he starts moving faster, starts pounding into her rough and hard. And it feels so good she wants to scream. She scratches wildly at his back, moves her hips with his. He’s heavy above her, movements so strong her whole body’s pushed back and forth on the mattress. He grunts and breathes onto her cheek, trying for another kiss. It’s sloppy and wet where their lips meet, tongues and teeth and the warm heat of their mouths. 

Something rubs just right and she gasps. His hips stutter and he moves again, just like before. She feels so good, so full, her whole body electric as he moves inside her. She’s getting close, so close, teetering on the edge. He’s losing his rhythm, shoulders tense, and she squeezes her body around him. His head drops to her shoulder and he groans. His hips shift and he holds himself up with one arm as the other strokes down her side. His hand moves between her legs and he rubs the pad of her thumb against her clit. His hips snap harder and harder and she’s held there, right at the precipice for a tiny infinity until she comes, crying out his name, her body wracked with spasms of pleasure.

He loses control then, fucking her even harder, and she lays back through the aftershocks of her orgasm as he chases his. She watches him, his face twisted into a fraught expression, half pain half pleasure. Her body’s still primed, revving up again as he finally comes with a long, low groan, collapsing on top of her.

For a long, quiet moment they lay there together, sweat cooling. Frank runs a rough hand over her hair, smoothing it away from her face. “Shit,” he breathes. He raises himself up, bracing himself with arms thick as cables on either side of her. He’s so close she feels her heart leap up to her throat and she closes her eyes, avoids the way he’s looking at her. He leans down and she feels his breath on her face. He shifts and then cups her face with one big hand. The soft pad of his thumb strokes with aching gentleness down her cheek. She gasps, chokes out a breath of air before she can help herself. He murmurs something she doesn’t understand and then kisses her, like a whisper, on her left eyelid then her right. It’s the most tender anyone’s ever been with her and something coils in a knot in her chest. Something thick runs with her blood, pumping in a radiant burst of pain all through her body. It’s too painful to look at him, too painful to feel the careful, attentive touch of gun-calloused hands. His thumb moves again, across her cheek, and his mouth touches hers. Brief. Soft. She reaches up to place a hand on the back of his neck and he presses his mouth to hers again and then again, and she opens under him and feels the warm slide of his tongue and then the pull of her bottom lip between his teeth.

It shouldn’t be like this, she thinks. It should be harder, desperate, like when he’d thrown her down onto the bed, stoking her feelings from anger and hysteria to single-minded passion. Or it should be tentative and awkward. Unsure. She could deal with that, with clouded feelings or even regret. But not this. Not his hand resting gentle against her face and kisses that feel affectionate.

He pulls away and she opens her eyes.

It’s Frank who looks away, unable to hold her gaze, and he sits up. “I’m not going back out tonight,” he says as he stands. “If you’re too shaken up to go home, you can stay here.”

“You don’t mind?”

He shakes his head. There’s a pair of pants - not the bloody ones he had been wearing - folded neatly on the single chair, and he grabs them, shakes them out, and pulls them on without bothering to zip them up. “No, I don’t mind. Offered, didn’t I?” He gestures over to the bathroom. “And, uh. You should take a shower.”

She lets out a weak laugh and rolls her eyes. “Yeah.” He’s not leering - she doesn’t think he ever would leer - so she doesn’t bother covering up. She gets off the bed and walks to the bathroom. “I’ll be out in a second,” she says. “Can I borrow something to wear? Preferably not covered in blood.”

“Sure,” he says, nodding. His expression changes, shifting from disinterest to something sharper. His gaze cuts through her, a knife between her ribs, and her heart pounds, air sitting like still water in her lungs. He clears his throat and she exhales. “That, uh. That was the first time I made love to anyone since Maria.”

Karen looks around the tiny apartment: at the arsenal on the walls, the bloody prints of their bodies on his sheets, at the way Frank doesn’t look at her, turning so his back is facing her. It’s covered in long, shallow scratches from her nails, lines of red drawn down his shoulders. Is that what they did, she wonders? Make love? She imagines she can feel bruises form where his hands were on her body.

She walks into the bathroom, leaving Frank to his guns. Once the door is shut she turns on the shower and wraps her arms around her body, shaking as she listens to the spray hit the bottom of the old, graying shower. It’s an unsteady patter, loud enough to drown out her sob as she sinks to the floor. 

It takes a full minute or more for her to collect herself. But then she stands and wipes her face. She steps into the shower and lets the water sluice over her back. It runs down her face, wets her hair and makes it hang heavy over her shoulders. She thinks about Frank. She thinks about his body inside hers, his bullet whizzing through the head of the man she stabbed in the throat. She thinks about the way he ripped off her shirt and the way he kissed her afterwards, tender and soft like she meant something to him. Making love, she thinks, and the word - _love_ \- snags like a burr in her throat.

**Author's Note:**

> After re-reading this I don't hate it. I seriously went to bed last night thinking I was going to have to rewrite about 4000 words of this. It doesn't do what I initially planned, but I kind of like what it is doing here, so I hope you enjoy it, too. I always appreciate comments and kudos, and thanks for taking the time to read this!
> 
> Also! I worry some people might think Karen's actions here, even her worry about killing her attacker, are out of character, but really that's how I see her, I guess. Obviously she has killed before with Wesley, and even if she was glad she did it, it profoundly affected her. She might want the guy dead but she doesn't want to have to do the deed herself. Also the way he died was kind of awful to watch, and his throat blood literally showered her so even if you think she'd be tougher about it, I hope you can see why I wrote her getting hysterical about that. I actually had more backstory and stuff about why the attack happened, what she's working on, but the feel I was going for really was just a shot of story, quick with one main theme, which was the juxtaposition of brutality and connection/tenderness that kind of is her relationship with Frank (or at least that's the trajectory). Even the sex was supposed to be brutal - like totally consensual and enjoyable, but rougher, but that didn't quite happen, which was why I said at the beginning that this didn't quite turn out how I planned. When I started writing Frank, he couldn't sustain the anger, and the sex became a lot more intimate, a lot more about him being starved for connection. I couldn't emphasize that without slipping out of Karen's POV and also lengthening the fic more which I think would have lessened the hurried, desperate feel of the sex, so that didn't quite work either. The punch of him saying that they made love at the end was supposed to be bigger, but I think it still works because reading it I hope it comes across that that's what it felt like while they were doing it. Anyway. IMO making love is the most old-fashioned term ever and I have never used it in real life, but I really think Frank might. SO.
> 
> I'm a terrible author because I've just told you what my story was supposed to be doing - BUT IGNORE ME PLEASE WHAT DO I KNOW PLEASE INTERPRET IT HOWEVER YOU WANT. I talk too much, and I love talking about writing. (Obviously, look at the length of this thing...) Also I suck at tagging stories here. 
> 
> ...okay bye.
> 
> [tumblr](http://librarian-repellent.tumblr.com)


End file.
